


Hearts Can Be Well Hidden

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's True Form (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), F/M, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, For a few chapters, Ineffable Valentines 2020 (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Morning After, Mutual Pining, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens), Romantic Fluff, Sexual Fantasy, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Time Skips, Wingfic, but shhhh it's a secret, eventually, for one chapter, post scene body swap, valentines day prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 10,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22514281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: How do you say I love you when you can’t say I love you?This is how their love exists. It grows in the gaps between words, in the dark and secret places of their hearts. In places where a relationship less sure of itself wouldn’t even be able to find purchase. It’s a hardy, patient little thing and not nearly as delicate as it appears. Over centuries it has evolved to thrive in scarcity. The merest hint of a smile or the barest touch of gazes can keep it flowering for decades.A slow and steady ramble back and forth through time to the South Downs Cottage.Me: Oh, yay. Sweet fluffy Valentine’s Day prompts from @mielpetite, on theIneffable Valentines blogI’ll give that a try.Also me: But I’m just in an angsty place right now.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 47





	1. Chocolate

**Author's Note:**

> I am really excited about writing these, but this is going to be a busy month at work so although I’ve prepared ahead of time there may not be one a day after the first couple of weeks. I may still be working on them in April. 
> 
> The title comes from Neil Gaiman's poem Instructions. I misquote it in chapter 5 too.

“Is this one of yours?”

It’s a fair assumption. Aziraphale is the one composed spot of goodness in the raucous chocolate house where politicians scheme and dissolute young men bemoan the loss of their fortunes.

“Could be,” Crowley concedes. “Try this.” He lifts the copper pot and pours the chocolate into the cup.

“It’s rather thick.” Aziraphale frowns.

“Stops the spillages that way. Don’t want to stain all that pretty lace.”

It is pretty. It’s also about fifty years out of date. Aziraphale takes the cup daintily and sniffs. Crowley tries not to lean too far across the table, but he does let his lip quirk up in challenge. Aziraphale takes a sip, his eyes never leaving Crowley. He then sits up straighter and rubs his lips together.

“Rather bitter.”

“Well, if you don’t like it.” Crowley lounges back from the table.

“I didn’t say that.” Aziraphale takes another, less cautious sip.

“It’s all the rage. Very modern.”

Aziraphale tuts. “Modern!”

Crowley sweeps out an arm. “Look around you, angel. This is where the decisions of England are being made.”

“I suppose you will wile away your time here, then?”

Oh, now he gets it. Clever angel. Crowley smiles as fully as he ever dares in public when Aziraphale is around.

Aziraphale drains his cup and holds it out for more. “I suppose I had better get used to this new fad then. What with virtue being ever vigilant.” He looks at Crowley over the table, the lines around his eyes softening. Crowley’s smile gets just a little bit broader.

This is how their love exists. It grows in the gaps between words, in the dark and secret places of their hearts. In places where a relationship less sure of itself wouldn’t even be able to find purchase. It’s a hardy, patient little thing and not nearly as delicate as it appears. Over centuries it has evolved to thrive in scarcity. The merest hint of a smile or the barest touch of gazes can keep it flowering for decades.

That’s why when Aziraphale says, _I suppose I had better get used to this new fad_ , Crowley’s soul soars. This, then, will become a place they can meet. Nominally it will be for work, but privately it’s another excuse to sit across a table from each other collecting up the scraps for stitching into memories at a later date.

“And the wicked never rest,” Crowley says. “You free next Thursday morning?”


	2. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up to a familiar scent.

The first thing Crowley smells when he wakes up is the faint whisper of roses. Eyes barely open, he rolls over and buries his face in the now empty pillow next to him. The Romans always were gluttons for luxury and excess and Aziraphale had fitted in perfectly by trying every rich and expensive potion and pomade they’d put rose oil in. Crowley doesn’t know if he still uses the scent when there are so many more options to explore, but the delicate breath of it, light and sweet, clings to Aziraphale despite whatever else his barber recommends. It’s been a beacon to follow. A secret message that yes, he was here.

Crowley inhales. The scent is still on his fingers too and on his tongue. He’s been anointed with it. The sacred mark of Aziraphale’s lips still tingles on his skin. There’s barely an inch of Crowley’s skin where he wasn’t angel blessed. Now, like Aziraphale he feels not quite of this world. Then again, this is not quite the world they were in yesterday and that has less to do with Adam resetting the universe than what happened afterwards in Heaven and Hell. 

This is not quite Crowley’s body anymore either. It’s familiar enough in the length of the limbs, the way its hips roll, but it carries Azirphale’s marks. Light scratches on his thighs and back. The bite mark on the curve of his shoulder. Inside too, deep in the dark empty places of him roses are starting to bloom. Crowley’s heart is now a garden and that’s Aziraphale’s doing.

Crowley dares to open his eyes. Hazy light filtering through his curtains makes him blink. This is still his bare empty room, except that there is an old Victorian coat hanging neatly from the back of his bedroom door. There’s a pair of well-cared for brown brogues tucked neatly under the window.

Nothing has changed really, except that everything has.

Crowley brushes the sleeve of the coat as he leaves his bedroom. He follows the scent of roses through the flat. Aziraphale is in the kitchen brewing coffee. He’s wrapped in a tartan dressing gown that probably didn’t exist last night and his bare, perfect toes, wiggle on the floor as he hums along to some nonsense on the radio.

Crowley slips up behind him, wrapping his long arms round Aziraphale’s waist and slotting them together, chest to back, hips to hips, mouth to neck. Two buds on the same stem. “Morning, angel,” Crowley murmurs into soft curls. “You smell good.”


	3. Poetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has too many feelings and not enough words

It starts sometime in the fifteenth century when Aziraphale buys his first blank commonplace book. He justifies it with lofty ideals of becoming a Seneca or Marcus Aurelius by chronicling meditations on human history through impartial eyes or some such rot. 

What he actually does, after tearing out the first few pages of drivel, is write Crowley’s name. He inscribes it slowly, as though drawing the black ink up from the page, as though he could conjure the demon himself. Then he writes the three words he can’t say, over and over, in an act of self-flagellation. After three pages of _Crowley, I love yous_ he still isn’t purged.

He writes those lines from _Antony and Cleopatra_ and embellishes the capitals with trailing vines and serpents (his time in Lindasfarne was well spent) until he has his own inky garden of forbidden delights swirling across the page.

He takes the book with him everywhere. A secret, good hurt pressing against his flesh. Aziraphale can’t stand the thought of leaving it behind for the maid to find, for Heaven to find. For Crowley to find. This way he can miracle it into non-existence if the need arises.

He tries to break the enchantment he’s woven for himself with other words like _foul fiend_ or _you’re a demon, it’s what you do_ , but all that leads to are pages of, _Crowley, I love you and I’m sorry_.

Occasionally when Aziraphale is truly lonely, which, more often than not, is just after Crowley has just left him, he will take the book out and add to it.

Aziraphale writes _My love is a fever_ and thinks of Crowley

He writes, _For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love._

On one occasion he tries writing his own poetry but gives it up as inadequate. Despite his breadth of angelic intelligence he does not have the imagination to capture the maelstrom of hope and sorrow mixing inside him. He can do miracles, but poetry is a very human magic. Instead he copies out some stanzas of Lord Byron and fails to feel better.

He dreams of lying with his head in Crowley’s lap, the demon’s fingers petting his hair, while Aziraphale charms him with this stolen magic. He imagines the sky is blue and clear, and the tree above them is weighted down with white blossom. It shields them and keeps them safe.

He writes down _Imagine there’s no Heaven….. No Hell below us..._.

Then crosses it out, hard, terrified by his own heresy.

When the books are full Aziraphale will buy himself the best bottle of wine available and light a fire. He’ll sit in his most comfortable chair and pull each page from his binding, one by one, and watch it go up in smoke. He can only keep one book on him at a time, and it’s just safer this way, you see? And there’s the hope that when one book is burned he won’t start another. At least, not for a few decades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes are the First lines of;  
> Shakespeare’s Sonnet 147  
> 'The Canonization' by John Donne  
> And 'Imagine', by John Lennon


	4. Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a late night visitor

This is not the best idea that Crawley has ever had, but she’s not thinking straight. Pain will do that to a mind. Besides, the angel had given away his flaming sword because Eve was homeless and pregnant; damsel in distress must be his thing, right?

Much, much later, Crawley will look back on this thought and laugh at how both terribly right and wrong she was. Now though, she is preparing to play damsel in distress to the absolute hilt if it gets her somewhere warm to just be for a few moments. And she would be playing. She can take care of a few hurts herself if she wants to, but she’s just choosing not to because misery loves company and at Golgotha the angel did seem pretty miserable.

He opens the door to his room wide-eyed and flushed. He’s been drinking. Good. Crawley holds up her wine skin and smiles.

“Crawley!”

She could discorporate for the scandalised delight in his voice. How does he make her name sound so naughty?

“Want some company, angel?” she smirks.

“What are you doing here?”

She proffers the wine skin again. “No one’s watching. You think I’d come here if someone was watching?”

“You’re presenting as a woman and…”

“Think bigger.” She rolls her eyes up and then down.

Aziraphale still pokes his head out of the door, glancing quickly both ways, before he ushers her inside like the dirty little secret she is. Crawley tries not to wince at the quick movement, but it passes the angel’s notice as he’s currently more concerned with his spotless reputation than her facial expressions.

“Sit down, please.” He moves scrolls from the mattress, looks round the sparse room and puts them back in the far corner of the mattress in a slightly neater pile. Crawley senses a little bit of sloth in his housekeeping and a growing pride in his acquisition of material possessions. Something else too, something like nervous excitement, anticipation and smothered attraction. She can’t hold that against him. She’s sinning herself in that department.

Aziraphale sits her on the hay stuffed mattress with a cup of wine and drags up a stool so he can perch opposite her. Crawley wriggles until she can find a comfortable position where as few muscles hurt as possible. She wonders how rude it would be to swing both legs onto the mattress and curl up in Aziraphale’s blankets.

“Quite the day.” His shoulders are slumped and his skin grey.

Crawley winces with sympathy, shifting her weight carefully.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

“I’m not your dear and m’fine.” The poison in her voice startles even her. She hates fighting though, she’s not good at it and is always the one that runs first. It makes her feel weak and vulnerable.

Aziraphale pours her more wine and doesn’t question it until her next twitch.

“Oh really,” he gets up. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine. Stop fussing.” She leans away from him, causing more twinges in her stomach.

“You’re clearly in pain.”

“Oh, forget it.” Crawley gets up and starts to leave.

Aziraphale catches her wrist and frowns as he sees the bruises previous fingers have left on her skin.

“It’s nothing.” Crawley tugs her arm and Aziraphale releases her. “After today Hell was just a little jumpy.”

“That’s not a reason…”

“Hell doesn’t need a reason. Besides,” she forces a grin, “you should see the state of the demons that jumped me.”

Aziraphale does not look impressed. If Crawley is honest there’s no real reason to be. It was, on the face of it, nothing but a scuffle over who should have got out of whose way in a corridor. Mostly hair pulling and nail scratching. Not room to really throw any good punches, although when they went down in a tangle the other demons either started making bets or stepped right on top of them. Crawley was on top and had the worst of it until she’d gone snake and fled.

Aziraphale tilts his head, looking speculative.

“Don’t you dare try and heal me.” Crawley jerks her wrist back. “What do you think will happen if I go back stinking of angel?”

Aziraphale blinks. For a moment Crawley thinks he’s going to heal her anyway and then she’ll, she doesn’t know what she’ll do. Cry, probably and won’t that just be embarrassing? He steps away from her though, turns back towards the wine.

“Stinking? How rude. And you a guest.”

He says its o primly, Crawley snorts to hide her smile.

“Sit down,” Aziraphale says. “Stay. Please.”

It’s the politeness that gets her. Crawley slinks away from the door and back to her perch on the mattress.

Aziraphale settles next to her. Not too close, but close enough to make her suspicious.

“Show me.” He says. “I promise not to make you stink, but I can be as stubborn as you.”

“Worse.”

They glare at each other. Can angel’s glare? This one manages it although it’s undermined by his obvious concern.

Crawley sighs and shows him her wings. It’s the least of her hurts where demonic shoes and sandals trampled over her. The worst ones she carries cut into her mind and her heart and he can’t heal those. Being the Serpent of Eden carries a certain fame, but that just means more of the other minor demons want to drag her back down with them, and the more powerful demons want to make sure she knows her place. Her place being very much under their boots.

The mattress sags a bit as Aziraphale moves closer to her back. He doesn’t make a sound, although he does run a finger over one of the loose feathers. “May I?”

Crawley nods and braces herself as he teases it loose. They sit in silence, Crawley with one bent leg on the mattress, leaning forward on her hands while Aziraphale sits cross-legged behind her. After a while he miracles a bowl of water to clean off the worst of the blood. Occasionally he’ll murmur, “Is this alright?”

Crawley is grateful that he doesn’t ask if she is alright because then she’d have to be sarcastic, and it’s bad enough she’s sat here exposing her back and neck to her enemy. Bad enough she’s thinking idly about how his gentle hands would feel in other places if his fingers combing through her wings send shivers down to the pit of her belly. It’s so relaxing, that’s the thing, being touched with kindness.

“All done.”

It’s too soon. She was just starting to feel her shoulders unclench. Crawley lifts her head as Aziraphale scoots off the mattress. Mistake. She catches his gaze before he turns away. His cheeks are flushed with something that looks too dark to be the wine.

“I need to go.” Crawley gets up fast.

“Really?”

Oh Satan, is he disappointed?

“Yep,” Crawley’s already trying to sidle through the door. “I’ve got wiles, to you know, wile.”

“Do I need to thwart you? It’s dark out there.”

Sweet that he thinks there’s anything out there more dangerous than her. Except that there is or she wouldn’t have come to him bruised and battered in the first place. Aziraphale is too much of a gentleman to point that out to her.

“Well, mind how you go then,” Aziraphale says.

“Yeah, thanks.” She’s almost free when her traitorous mouth holds her up. “I don’t mind, actually.”

“What?”

“If you call me dear. You know, if there’s no one about.”

“Oh, oh.” He lights up like a star. “If you like, my dear.”

“Night angel.” Crawley flees before he has time to reply.


	5. Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale struggles to tell lies.

Part of the job description, for both of them, is to be able to see into the human heart where She has planted eternity. Even so, neither angel nor demon can see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end, only hints and flashes of what a person needs or what can tip the balance towards the dark or the light.

However, hearts can be well-hidden, unless you betray them with your tongue. Or your face.

Aziraphale stands before Gabriel and tries to be still as Crowley is mentioned again. Is his mouth twisting, his eyes brightening? He tries, he does. He practices in the mirror. His tongue can lie, his mind can lie, but his body always fails him. His blasted, broken heart wants to spill its secrets right there on to Gabriel’s polished shoes.

Aziraphale holds in the smile, tries to focus but Heaven is so bright and he always feels so under scrutiny when he’s up here.

Funny things hearts. There’s a nineteenth century medical text book in the shop that sometimes Aziraphale will pull out. He’ll trace the shape of it, the quarters of it. Can’t help thinking, north, south, east…

It’s just a muscle. A pump. Nothing secret about it. Not since humans started cutting each other open and exposing their inner secrets to the light.

That’s how Aziraphale feels now. Opened up and pinned down.

Does Gabriel know? If he does why hasn’t he done anything?

Aziraphale pushes the feelings back down. _They don’t know anything. You can’t allow yourself to believe that they know anything._ Still, his unruly heart won’t shut up, beating faster and faster. “Oh, yes, a wily adversary. Keeps me on my toes, I can tell you.” Aziraphale hopes he isn’t blushing what with all the blood in his veins heating up right now.

He gave Crowley Holy Water, may She forgive him, but that won’t work against angels.

Aziraphale learned long ago that the archangel was not stupid. He’s not even sure that the act Gabriel puts on is supposed to appear stupid, but there’s a dogged cunning under that too affable veneer. Best not chance it. Aziraphale keeps his heart as much to himself as he can until he’s back in the lift heading downwards.

Much later, about eleven years later, Aziraphale will lay in the dark, his check pressed to Crowley’s bare chest. The rhythm of Crowley’s own heart beats against his ear. Crowley’s heart isn’t supposed to beat either, but they have both just put these corporations through their paces and are still recovering. 

Aziraphale will count the gently slowing rhythm of their bodies. He’ll close his eyes and let his skin cool. 

“Are you alright, angel?”

Aziraphale lifts his head and smiles. He’ll take out his heart and give it into Crowley’s keeping, and the brightness of the demon’s gaze will light it up each quarter like the stars.


	6. Perfect Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know, if it were a date. 
> 
> And I need my obligatory Bastille shoes reference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra chapter because I have a busy few days ahead.

Crowley doesn’t know how angels mate in Heaven these days, doesn’t like to think about any of them being intimate on any level, if he’s honest. This particular angel though will send out a distress signal. It may as well read;

_Dear Messrs Crowley, you are cordially invited to save the principality Aziraphale who has got himself into rather an embarrassing spot of bother. If you’re successful there may be lunch provided_. _Yours etc._

This is not actually a date. How many times does Crowley need to tell himself that before he believes it? Probably just once more. This is not a date.

If it were though, it’d probably be the best one yet.

Firstly, and most importantly, it is Aziraphale’s idea. This makes everything easier because Crowley doesn’t have to cajole him into it. Not that there isn’t fun in that too, but it means he doesn’t have to think up a business reason to turn up unannounced in the first place. It also means it will be more fun. 

Secondly, he gets to dress up and be a hero. All in black and red, of course, latest fashion. He practises his opening line on the way over and because he is feeling particularly flash stops time. Don’t want to share Aziraphale’s attention with the executioner.

Thirdly, Aziraphale has dressed up too. Out of date and completely insane for hoofing around Paris in a revolution, but he still looks good. Crowley will always regret it when stockings on men go out of fashion. Shoes are nice too. Still if lunch is to be an option Aziraphale will not be wearing that costume out of this cell.

Terrible shame this isn’t actually a date because Crowley would be more than happy to help with that. As it is, turns out Aziraphale can do frivolous miracles after all, but only when there’s crepes on the line. It’s barely a miracle, really.

Whatever you say angel, let’s also not mention that you’ve just sent a man off to death in your place. I like your bastard streak, you should bring it out to play more often.

Fourthly, lunch _is_ provided. Crowley tries not to dwell on Aziraphale eating crepes because this is not actually a date and Aziraphale licking anything other than his spoon is very much off the table, so to speak. Still it’s an image that lingers. It’s one that Crowley will take to pieces so he can replay scenarios in his head about what exactly he could have said or done that would have resulted in being covered in cream and making a real mess off the café’s table cloths. 

Not quite a perfect date then. As Crowley slumps into his chair at home he realises that this is less to do with the lack of demon licking and more to do with the fact that it wasn’t actually a date. Except it kind of was. The way Aziraphale looked at him when he first appeared in the cell. The breathlessness of the “Oh, good Lord!”

They were flirting. He’s sure of it. 100%. 80%. Maybe 50/50. Whatever.

Aziraphale was definitely checking him out though. Definitely.

And now he’s bothered and confused and there’s really nothing for it. Crowley stalks outside to stick some valuable coins to the pavement. 


	7. My Angel is the Centerfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew Aziraphale was married?

The magazine is glossy and specialist. It’s terrible incongruous in the book shop, even though the front cover is dominated by books, opulently lit so that their bindings positively glisten. The headline teasingly indicates the volumes rarity and expense, and if the discerning reader would only turn to page six they may find out something to interest them.

“When did you start stocking magazines?” Crowley is not a discerning reader, but he is bored.

“That was given to me,” Aziraphale calls from the back where he’s probably fussing over which particular tartan will bring out his eyes or some such nonsense.

They all bring out his eyes. His eyes are glorious. And Crowley wants to go already. The few weeks surrounding Valentine’s Day always makes him fidgety. There’s not a restaurant in London where two close friends in a constant negotiation over whether or not they can be more and how would that even work now anyway can go to eat without having balloons and cupids shoved in their faces. It’s exhausting and embarrassing and why they can’t just order take out is beyond Crowley.

“It’s the experience,” Aziraphale calls out.

“Did I say anything?”

“I know you were going too.”

Crowley huffs. He reaches the middle of the magazine and sits down heavily. He’s looking at an interior shot of Aziraphale’s book shop spread over the middle pages. It’s all dusty, cosy chaos and it looks beautiful. Aziraphale is sat in his desk looking at the camera with an expression that can only be described as hopefully nervous. Crowley peers closer. Someone has put make up on him. Probably to counteract the lights the cameraman would have to set up to scare away all the shadows in the shop’s corners.

How on earth did they talk Azirphale into this? And why would he agree to such an out of character act of folly that would result in (horrors!) more customers?

Crowley scans the interview. _Been here since the nineteenth century, family business_ , _specialising in bibles…angel mug._

Crowley’s eyes dart back to the picture. Yep, Aziraphale is holding the angel mug in both hands. It was a joke. Crowley never expected him to actually use it, but then Aziraphale has never been subtle using the wing motif. It was on his watch chain and his ring, so Crowley had thought why not and bought the cheapest, tackiest thing with wings on that he could find. He was being facetious, that was all.

Crowley goes back to the article. He waded his way through the business portion of it and found the bit where the interviewer tried to dig up some human interest on the shop’s owner for a lighter finish.

Interviewer: _Quite a novelty mug there._

AZF: _Oh, yes. My husband gave it to me. It was a joke, I think. He calls me angel, you see?_

Crowley’s heart, had it been beating, would have stopped. He’s still staring at a fixed point on the opposite wall when Aziraphale bustles back into the room. “Oh, you saw it. Terribly embarrassing but they kept calling and calling. Capitulating was the easiest way to get rid of them. Are you ready to go?”

“Hmm?” Crowley looks up.

Aziraphale smiles with the same hopeful nervousness as in the photo.

It’s nothing. The entire article is a whole web of lies. Family business, indeed. Although this pales in comparison to the absolute bollocks about how Aziraphale enjoys talking to the customers. Probably made up a husband on the spot because humans have always read him as gay, and a husband with a sense of humour plays right into their assumptions, doesn’t it?

No harm done.

Except, _He calls me angel, you see?_

Crowley puts the magazine back on the table and decides not to think about it anymore. This lasts until they get into the Bentley. He’s driving, that’s the thing, has an excuse not to look at Aziraphale’s face.

“Didn’t know you were married, angel.”

“Didn’t you?” Aziraphale laughs. “Well that is unfortunate. Sushi? There’s this lovely new restaurant near Covent Garden.”

“And I presume your husband will be paying?”

“Oh, if he’d like to that would be lovely.”

Right.


	8. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a thief of touch

It started as a way to annoy Aziraphale. Crowley likes to push things, to see how far he can go before someone decides to check up on him. So, trying to touch Aziraphale is pretty much the same as sending increasingly outrageous reports back to Downstairs.

It’s a game, a lark, a provocation waiting for a reaction. When will the angel tire of the dirty demon messing up his nice white, slightly out of fashion robes?

He doesn’t. There’s a slight start the first time Crowley, Crawley then, rests his hand on an arm. Eyes meet. Crowley does not apologies. Life goes on, except that Crowley swears Aziraphale’s cheeks pinken. He gives it a couple of decades and tries again. Nothing.

Well, maybe a slightly nervous jumping of the eyes, a press of the lips, but nothing so charming as the blush.

Bless it. He tries again. No discernible response except a fond, perhaps patronising, smile and, ‘did you want some of these dates, my dear?’

“Sure.” No.

Crowley resolves to forget the whole stupid thing and mix up some sheep to annoy a couple of previously friendly neighbours. Then they meet again. Aziraphale approaches him in Rome, asks him out to eat oysters of all things. Somewhere at the bottom of the fourth, maybe fifth, cup of wine their fingers brush and it’s Crowley who feels the heat climbing up his cheeks.

He likes touching Aziraphale.

“Whoops, sorry.” Aziraphale continues to pour the wine.

Crowley likes the warmth of Aziraphale’s skin, the softness of the hairs on his forearms and the way it brings them closer even as they continue the endless circling and negotiation of what this thing that they’re doing is.

After that Crowley is a thief of touches and over the centuries he becomes quite good at it. To the best of his knowledge he’s hardly ever caught in the act. It’s reassurance almost, that if Crowley touches and Aziraphale allows it then they are fine, still on track, tickety-boo. It’s normalised. Permissible.

It’s ok for Crowley to guide Aziraphale through doors with a hand on his back, sometimes help him out of the Bentley. It’s just politeness really.

Oh, the ignominy of it all! A demon being polite! He always makes sure to close the door in the face of the person behind them.

On one occasion, in the 60’s Crowley yawns and stretches his arm across the back of a theatre seat. After Azirpahale’s ‘you can do better than that, my dear,” he never tries that particular move again.


	9. Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They kiss. Yep, that's it.

Aziraphale has not wanted a drink so badly in the entirety of his existence. The anxiety over giving away his flaming sword was nothing to this, the rude note from Gabriel pales in comparison. This is so very different and he is not sure that he has done the right thing. He is still not convinced that loving Crowley as he does is the right thing. That’s the crux of it; he has given Crowley Holy Water because he loves him.

He is also aware that he did not give Crowley Holy Water in the first place because he loved him. Or couldn’t entertain the idea of a world without him, that being his preferred way of thinking about it then. A hand touches Aziraphale’s elbow before he has quite made it to the safety of his shop. Think of the devil...

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Aziraphale turns.

“Don’t want to talk.” Crowley doesn’t stop moving forward. Aziraphale’s back bounces against the shop door. He inhales, ready to protest, a lecture nearly fully formed in his brain. It flies away as soon as Crowley leans in. A brief, fleeting kiss of gratitude that’s all. A thank you that can’t be put into words. Tears collected behind Aziraphale’s eyelids for years threaten to spill. He’s the affronted party, he should deliver that lecture, slap Crowley’s face. He can’t stand the thought the demon might see him cry.

Best keep him occupied then.

His fingers curl round Crowley’s upper arm. Crowley tilts his head in question, Azirapahle is already up on tiptoes, closing the distance again and seeking more. This has always been the way of things for Aziraphale. He can resist right up until that first taste. It was the same with food and wine. After that first lapse he’s insatiable when it comes to his own pleasure. Nothing has changed though, not really, but he is tired of always being the, well, the guardian at the gate. The one drawing out the line between them.

No one is watching. If they were Crowley wouldn’t be doing this. He is not that reckless, Aziraphale hopes. Aziraphale can count on one hand the times they have dared to do this. This and no more, but their bodies remember, _I remember that you like this, if I do this then I can make sigh._

Aziraphale sighs. It’s too hot and too good this push and pull between them. Aziraphale wants it never to stop. He wants to drag Crowley back through the shop and strip him down on the ratty old sofa in the back room. He wants to fold back layers of clothing and skin and sinew to find the core of him. He wants so badly to sing to Crowley in a forgotten language and entwine their essences together that he’s terrified. Reality is starting to warp around them. He’s being selfish. At this stage Aziraphale still doesn’t believe that Heaven will truly hurt him, and he doesn’t believe he’ll fall because if this was wrong then it would already be over. No, this is Crowley at risk. He is being so very selfish.

Aziraphale shoves Crowley away. “Really, my dear. What are you thinking?”

“Too fast?” Crowley asks like a drunk man.

“Too fast.” Aziraphale slams the door shut between them.


	10. Champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know where you are with a decent red...

Champagne is the flirt of the drinks world, an expensive courtesan both light and charming. That is until you're taken to one side and given the bill.

The first time Crowley and Aziraphale had tried it was just after its creation. Both were lured to that region of France by rumours of the devil's wine causing bottles to explode in monastic cellars. In Aziraphale's defence it sounded like the sort of inconvenient mischief Crowley _would_ get up to. In Crowley’s defence anything that caused monk's to run about screaming with their skirts above their knees had to be good for a laugh. 

They rescued a few of the now corkless bottles and took them out to a vineyard where they sat on a gentle slope at sunset and got hideously drunk on something fascinating and fizzy. This perfect mistake was so light, so teasing that neither of them saw it happening.

Crowley couldn’t stop giggling. Aziraphale got hiccups. This was so very cute that Crowley stopped giggling long enough to try and kiss him. A friendly peck on the cheek, an I’m glad you’re here with me gesture.

It was badly timed. As Aziraphale bounced with the flexing of his diaphragm he smacked his forehead right into Crowley's nose. After a horrified silence they burst out laughing. On the way home Crowley jumped in the first river he saw in an effort to cool the lust boiling up his skin. Aziraphale kept the bottle and drunk himself into a stupor so he wouldn't have to think about the almost kiss and how much he'd wanted it.

They tried to avoid being at the mercy of that particular drink again. You know where you are with a decent red and a shot of whiskey is far more honest. Champagne is the drink of celebration. It’s where you turn when you’ve done well and want to kick back and let go. Bad ideas, all of them. You need to watch the persistent bubbles that build pressure inside you. You can hear them fizzing upwards, waiting to explode in a fountain of release at the slightest wrong move of a wrist.

Champagne is dangerous. 

So when Armageddon is averted and they're at the Ritz Aziraphale knows what it means to order the Charles Heidsieck Brut Millesime 2005. He does it calmly and without hesitation. Crowley doesn’t object. Damnit, they have earned this, and whatever comes after.


	11. Love Tokens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end of the world.

This is not the end of the world. They’ve been at the end of the world and survived so this is just precautionary measures. Red tape. Tying off loose ends.

“You ok, angel?”

Aziraphale looks up at his own face. His features anyway, but Crowley’s concern warping them into something familiar and foreign. This is not going to work, but Aziraphale tries. “Angel?” he asks with a smirk.

“You ok, _foul fiend?_ ” Crowley’s primness is insulting. 

Aziraphale swallows down the nervous tickety-boo shaping his tongue and nods. Focus. He needs to focus. He reaches for his pinkie ring, the last of his belongings removed from his person before they switched forms.

He’d had that ring custom made. He's worn it almost forever in one form or another as human technology advanced. He has the older ones in an old regency chest beneath his bed. Aziraphale glances up and catches Crowley's concern in his own sea-change eyes. 

He has to believe this will work. It’s easy, he tells himself, to see Crowly in every expression, every breath of the corporation before him because he knows Crowley so very well. He loves Crowley so very much.

And Crowley knew him well enough to adjust Aziraphale's bowtie in a way that is creepy in its exactness. 

“Here you go, my dear.” Azirphale holds out the ring.

Rather than taking it Crowley extends his hand, fingers splayed. 

“My dear?” Crowley says.

“Angel,” Aziraphale replies. “Although I probably shouldn’t call you that either.”

“Oh, I dunno. Try _angel_.” The way Crowley says it this time is part sneer and all hate.

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley shrugs.

This is not going to work. Still, it’s the best idea they have.

Aziraphale steps in taking Crowley's wrist in one hand. He slips his ring on to Crowley's little finger with the other.

Their gazes cling to each other for a heartbeat. 

This will work. It has to work. 

“How do I look then?” Crowley steps back and pulls down the waistcoat at the front, then the sides. 

“Perfect. And me?” Aziraphale relaxes his spine, loosens his hips. 

“Yeah good. Just one thing.” Crowley hooks the glasses off his desk. He has to come close again to slide them on to Aziraphale's nose. His fingertips brush Aziraphale's ears, his cheek bones.

Aziraphale covers Crowley's hand with his own, keeping Crowley’s palm against his face. Aziraphale's eyes are unflinching, holding Crowley fast from behind the dark lenses. Crowley returns the gaze with equal intensity.

"Never realised how bloody disconcerting those things were," Crowley says, turning away.

"Oh, I beg to differ. I think you know exactly how disconcerting they are." Aziraphale chuckles. It's desperate though. Levity in the face of their impending doom.

Crowley just smirks at him. "You look the part. This'll work."

Please God, let this work.

They can't say it. Not now. It’s too much to hold and so much more that they would have to hide. Instead they've exchanged these bits of each other. Something tangible to carry close and keep the shared secret of _I love you_ alive. Even beyond the end of the world. 


	12. Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Singin' in the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to keep a day ahead before work kicks off.

There is nowhere to land. Aziraphale can see rafts crowded with bodies, not all of them alive. The sea boils with grasping limbs, but he can’t hear the accompanying screams through the storm raging around him.

The ark is there too. Tossed high and low, back and forth. It remains resilient, keeping the favoured few safe within.

Aziraphale can’t stand it anymore and flies higher, higher until the world all around is a churning mass of grey clouds and slanted rain. Up here, where the air is thinner he finds a ledge to perch on and tucks his soaked wings close to his back. Water hammers into his upturned face, but there is nothing above him except darkness.

He has to try.

Aziraphale sings, hurling his voice into the wind. His words are snatched away from him, battered on the mountain behind him. Aziraphale sings louder, desperate that at least one note, a flicker of the melody will reach Her. He sings of what he’s seen, of forgiveness.

He’s never felt so alone.

Singing in the Host were the only times he had every truly felt like he belonged in Heaven. The Melody of his siblings surrounding him smoothed out his jagged edges, silenced his uncomfortable thoughts. When he stood among them he was truly part of a bigger plan.

Now his voice is weak, faltering. Alone and unheard in the storm. He sings louder. More desperately. It’s not just for the humans now, but himself a bit too. He wants to know why.

As soon as he’s come to that realisation the faint strains of another voice join his. It’s like tarnished metal, or a nearly cracked bell. Imperfect, but beautiful for all that. It's smoke and sulphur and good dark earth. It lies just below Aziraphale’s voice, lifting his up higher, melding with it so between them they can cut through the rain together.

Aziraphale hadn’t realised demons could still sing. He hadn’t realised how well, given that there is nowhere else to land, so Crawley must be singing on the wing. Aziraphale doesn’t turn his head; he sings louder. The two voices fly together for a moment longer. Crawley falters. His voice drops away, spiraling down into silence and leaving Aziraphale solo again, his song lost in the clouds. After a moment more Aziraphale stops too.

Crawley is off to his left, black wings beating furiously against the wind and red hair pulled out to the side, flapping wildly around his face. He cups his hands around his mouth. “Can’t remember any more. Forget more each day!”

Aziraphale reaches out to him, makes room on the ledge. “I can teach you!”

We could do it again. We could sing together. He does not want to be alone in his grief. He doesn't want to be alone.

For a moment it may look like Crawley will fly forward, or that could be that he’s buffeted by an extra strong gust. “Best not. She’s not changing her mind now.” He wipes the dripping hair from his eyes. “Don’t stay up here too long.” Crawley plummets down, back through the clouds leaving Aziraphale alone on the ledge.


	13. Grand gesture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> grand gestures are exchanged.

_You can stay at my place, if you like._

It was an impulse, and one that Crowley is surprised to find he doesn't regret. There are no nerves prickling, no stomach churning. Aziraphale has chosen him and no matter how brief the time they're given Crowley can't regret a moment of it. For Aziraphale's part his reaction to finally being invited into the demon’s lair is surprise, baffled wonder. He immediately demurs with a nervous laugh. He looks wrecked, energy and heart bleeding out all over the bench beneath him.

Crowley doesn't feel much better. He aches everywhere. He can still smell brimstone on himself and feel the chains cutting into his neck as he was dragged downwards. There's something else growing though. Something fresh and green poking its head up through the rubble. He's satisfied. Like the burn after running a marathon, the knowledge that you have completed something unthinkable. He's proud of himself and Aziraphale. He is not ashamed for Aziraphale to see his home now, or worried what he'll read into the minimal decor, the plants or a certain lectern rescued from a bombed out church.

If Hell turns up unexpectedly Crowley would rather they were together anyway. He redirects the bus, because that's what he does. He takes care of Aziraphale. They take care of each other and if anyone is watching, well fuck ‘em.

Crowley swings into an empty bus seat, leaning back and legs spread. He immediately draws his knees back together, making space because Aziraphale is standing above him giving every indication that he intends to sit next to Crowley. So, Crowley moves his legs and Aziraphale sits next to him.

Aziraphale sits next to Crowley. On a bus, in public, where anyone could see. It's one thing for Crowley to think _fuck 'em_ because he's had near six thousand years of practise. This is something else. Aziraphale gives Crowley that same exhausted smile of wonder then his mind clearly drifts off somewhere else as his eyes unfocus. Crowley can't stop his head twitching sideways to check the truth of everything his other senses are telling him. Yep, Aziraphale is definitely sitting next to him.

After the fifth time Aziraphale rests his hand over Crowley's. "It’s alright my dear. I'm here. I've got you."

"Yeah, alright." Crowley turns his hand over, lacing their fingers. _And I've got you angel._


	14. Be my valentine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gifts are exchanged. So are reassurances.

The humans are up to something. Wherever Crowley looks there are pink hearts. Probably Valentine's Day again, or Mother's Day? Looking after a six year old can really mess with your sense of time. On the one hand it crawls by at the speed of Brother Slug, on the other it can go so fast you’re left with whiplash. Either way it's a good excuse to buy chocolate.

After their last official let's-talk-about-the antichrist meeting Aziraphale had been jittery. Not cold feet exactly, but the impending doom of time running out and this whole mad plan not working. Crowley sympathises, he does, but he’s not giving up now.

They don’t have to meet like this, what with them living in the same place for the last six years, but covert meetings help to keep things in perspective. Keeps an air of professionalism. 

The British Museum Cafe is comfortably busy, although still Heaven like with its white walls and high ceilings. Crowley slithers into the seat next to Aziraphale and slides the box of chocolates towards him. Aziraphale sips his tea while he regards them carefully. 

“Is that not in bad taste, my dear?”

Crowley lifts his eyebrows.

“Surely you remember what they did to the poor man?”

Valentine’s Day then. “It’s what the humans do. What they were doing back then, anyway.” Crowley lays his hand over the box. “If you don't want them.”

“I didn’t say that. Thank you.” Aziraphale’s smile is soft and secret. “They look scrumptious.”

Offering accepted and angel distracted from impending doom, they chat briefly about Warlock, for appearances sake. Also for appearances sake Crowley orders a coffee, and that means Aziraphale orders more tea. Then it's lunch time and the cafe does quite a passable Caesar Salad so rude not to. They manage to drag it out until about mid-afternoon. 

“I may have got you something too.” Aziraphale says quickly, just as soon as they've both admitted it’s time to go. 

Crowley blinks at the brief case laid reverently on the table between them. Inside is a wodge of ribbon tied paper. The paper is aged but perfectly preserved. He recognises that careless chicken scratch, the playwright's mind moving faster than his hand could keep up with. 

“How long have you had this?”

“Oh, about 400 years. Quite a funny deleted scene in there where Dogberry tries to fight a rabbit.” Aziraphale smiles nervously. “Just been in the shop taking up space all this time.”

“I can’t accept this.” It’s an original draft of _Much Ado About Nothing_. Just lying around the shop? Bollocks to that. “I mean I just got you chocolate.”

“From Fortnum and Masons!” Aziraphale adjusts his bowtie. “Look, this is yours. I had him sign it to you. To Master Crowley, who prefers the funny ones...I just, well. It never seemed like the right time.”

He’s fidgeting. Nervous smile, fluttery hands. Crowley can’t take his eyes off him. “This will work, angel.” He says it very carefully. Very deliberately.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap to his. “Of course it will. You said it would and I believed you.”

“Of course, which is why you've finally been brave enough to give me this. You've been hanging on to it for so long I'm only going to be able to read it in a climate controlled box.”

“Look, if you don’t want it!” Aziraphale goes to pull the brief case back.

“I didn’t say that.” Crowley shuts the briefcase. “You'd best take me back to the shop. Show me how to care for it properly. “

“Oh yes, if you'd like.” Aziraphale’s relief is palpable.

 **“** Course. Come on. “

Angel clearly needs distracting and Crowley's up for the task. Valentine’s Day in the bookshop getting sloshed and reminiscing. Bloody perfect if you ask him. Might as well enjoy it while they can. Just best not put it to Aziraphale quite like that, that’s all.


	15. Delicacies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is on a quest. Aziraphale is both dragon and damsel.

Aziraphale, in Crowley's opinion, is a delicacy. He needs to be savoured. Studied even. Heaven forbid you ever try to rush him. 

Let me explain. 

On first seeing Aziraphale most people would see a stuffy middle-aged book seller with a fashion sense stuck somewhere between the late 1800s and the 1950s. They would not be entirely wrong. 

The more observant may also see the bookshop and they would not be wrong to do that either. The bookshop is as much a layer of Aziraphale’s celestial armour as the bowtie or the well-worn waistcoat. It is a cornucopia of chaos and misdirection. A veritable labyrinth guarding a slightly tetchy dragon. 

It's more a lair than Crowley's flat could ever be. This well papered nest holds clues though. The misprints of bibles indicate a mischievous humour. The first editions of a much missed fantasy author show a love of humanity, providing of course they don't actually dare touch said books. The less said about the landslides of play bills under the desk the better. 

Crowley is not most people. Crowley is not even people. He has been seeing Aziraphale for a long time. He knows that beneath the layers of books, bowtie and braces is a body built for fighting. Of course time and the invention of baking have rounded that off a bit but there's still strength in those muscles, and the straight spine always carries a sense of purpose. 

Not a warrior, Crowley would insist. Guardian though, yes. Aziraphale was built to fight but he has chosen protection as his speciality. A number of aggressive property developers could attest to this. If of course they remembered what the Heaven actually happened to them. 

Aziraphale's corporation is just another layer, however. Beneath that is the light. Not the blue strip light of Heaven but the golden depth of honey and the pink of sunrise. The whiteness of Aziraphale's wings is pearlescent. It's not unadulterated though. The snarls of poisonous blue-black-green are not from his accumulated small sins. They've been planted there from outside. Crowley seethes at them from a far. He's watched them grow. The doubt Aziraphale has in himself, the fear. Crowley's witnessed the tangled roots press deeper and flourish. He's tried to dig them out with fine wine and finer words. They keep growing. Crowley hasn't given up yet though. 

This is why. 

If you can solve the labyrinth of the bookshop, and if you can get beneath the layers of cloth and skin and flesh, if you can cut through the invasive alien brambles guarding the tower then, then, you may catch a glimpse of something special. 

The tower is unlocked because despite all evidence to the contrary the creature inside does want company. Just the right sort though. He has standards! 

Crowley, who has made a profession of trying to be worthy, sees it sometimes. Sometimes it'll surface in Aziraphale's sea scape eyes when an unexpected (alright then, kind of expected) rescue occurs. Or flare up when Crowley makes him laugh. If Crowley can be very still he catches glimpses of it when Aziraphale has sunk so far into a book, or a play, it's only his human corporation that exists in this reality. 

It's a carefully tended, multi eyed fire. Warm and welcoming, but not to be mishandled. A hearth where the softness and strength live in perfect balance with each other. It's a pure, warm light untouched by fear, or guilt or doubt. It's a place Crowley wishes he could slither inside and bask for eternity. He will wait for eternity to get the chance. 

This is the place he addresses when he calls Aziraphale angel. 


	16. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crawley challenges both his inner wicked queen and Disney Princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being so far behind. I'm still writing them though. I foolishly decided to let another fic eat my soul too, which hasn't helped.

"What are you still doing here?" Aziraphale stutters to a stop in the clearing by the waterfall.

The demon, Crawley, glances up from his perch by the stream. His black robes are up round his knees and his long scaly feet dabble in the water. Not so strange considering. What surprises Aziraphale are the flowers. A pile overflows from Crawley's lap and individual blooms are plaited into his Hell-fire curls. 

"Well it’s going on the divine scrap heap soon, didn’t want it to go to waste. What are you still doing here, come to that?" The demon challenges. There's the faintest tinge of pink to his cheeks. 

"Making sure all the animals have gone. Obviously" 

" _Obviously_. What’s that?" 

Aziraphale has forgotten the half eaten pear now leaking juice down his wrist. He hides it behind his back. Crawley smiles fondly at such an amateur attempt at deception. 

"Well, a pity to let it go to waste." Aziraphale gives up and took another bite. 

"Exactly my thoughts. Flowers can’t leave the Garden can they? They _are_ the Garden. Feel sorry for them."

Programmed from creation to look for wiles, Aziraphale narrows his eyes. "So you’re pulling them up? You're killing them?" 

"Thought about containers. If I put the earth in a bowl I could maybe keep them alive. Can’t imagine they’ll survive down below though. No natural light." Crawley tilts his head back. "Don't blame them really. I quite like the Sun."

"Is that where you’re going? Back... ?" Aziraphale points at the grass with his free hand and doesn't inspect his emotions too closely. There's a very definite twinge of something making itself known though. Probably eaten too many pears.

Crawley laughs. His nimble fingers continue to work flower stems together. "Not if I can help it. You going back up there?" 

"Not sure." Aziraphale ponders the reaction he'd had to his last report. It had not been complimentary. "I think they’d rather keep me out of sight and out of mind after you know…" 

"Oh, sorry about that." 

"Are you? Well can’t be helped. In your nature, I suppose." 

"I tell you what." Crawley grins as he extracts his hand from the wreath of flowers. "Let me make it up to you." His hand reappears holding a shiny red apple. 

"Oh really, that’s in bad taste!" 

"Nah, tastes excellent." Crawley's laughing openly now. 

Aziraphale tries not to let his own smile loose. It's nice this talking to someone without checking every word first. Then the demon stands up, spilling flowers all over the ground. 

"How about this then?"

Aziraphale wills himself not to step back as the demon approaches him. Crawley lifts the wreath of flowers and places it on Aziraphale's head. It droops over his ear. Crawley adjusts it and Aziraphale nibbles his lip, watching the muscles in Crowley's face shift as he concentrates. The frown gives way to a smile as he steps back. 

"Thank you." Aziraphale can smell the sweetness of them, still undercut with a hint of heat and brimstone. 

He wants to look in the stream but is rather worried that would be vanity. His pride in being thought worthy of a gift is already reaching dangerous proportions. 

"Might see you around then? If we're both staying up here?" The demon sits back down on his rock. 

"I suppose we might." Aziraphale resumes his ramble until he gets back to the Eastern Gate. He takes off the flower crown and examines it carefully, committing textures and scents to memory. There is no way he can take it with him, Crawley must have known that. Aziraphale still positions it carefully on a tree branch though, and admires it from afar.

It will be along time until Crowley would give Aziraphale flowers again, but every time he does they will be kept. The ghost memory of that first garland will always hang among them.


	17. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Aziraphale doesn't say I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is reading. I'm so far behind, but we will get there.

Aziraphale has been reading the same sentence in his book for the last fifteen minutes. The rush of water in the bathroom stops and a few minutes later Crowley comes a towel wrapped round his waist. 

Aziraphale tries not to look, even though he knows he can. He fixes his eyes on the type before him, unable to completely avoid the flashes of pale skin and red hair as Crowley moves about. 

The quiet domesticity of it all makes Aziraphale quite giddy. Lately his eyes have been lingering over the property pages in the newspapers. Silly idea really. Reading in Crowley's bed, and doing other things in Crowley's bed too, is just for security. They still enjoy their own spaces but there's also a dark, desperate need to be close occasionally. As close as they can be. When they aren't together, sometimes, at three in the morning, one of them will call the other. _Are you still there? Are you still safe?_

During moments like these, Aziraphale nearly says it. He wants to say it. He can't. 

It's not because he doesn’t feel it. Not at all. Whenever he has tried though, arms braced either side of the sink holding his own gaze in the mirror, it still comes out sounding guilty. The words are a brand of shame stamped all over his soul. His brain knows this is absolute balderdash, and his heart knows that the words are true. Still, the truth is fighting it’s way up through calcified layers of learned behaviour and when Aziraphale tells Crowley he loves him he will absolutely not stand for it sounding like an apology.

The bed creaks. Crowley shifts about. Rolls on to his side. "You're frowning."

Aziraphale puts down his book and takes off his glasses. "Not."

"You are. It's your thinking something unpleasant face."

Aziraphale wriggles down under the sheets so he can lie down facing Crowley. "Alright then. Not unpleasant, just thoughtful."

"Let's have it then."

"When did you first realise the depth of your regard for me?" 

"D _epth of my regard_. Have you been reading Austen again?" Crowley smirks. He can't help it. Aziraphale knows. Mockery is how he shows affection sometimes.

"The extent of your emotions, then that you preferred me to any other angel you’d ever met?" 

Crowley closes his eyes, wets his lips. He opens his eyes and with all seriousness says: "I cannot fix the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words which laid the foundation. It was too long ago. I. was in the middle before I knew that I had begun." 

Aziraphale smacks his arm. "I thought you didn’t read books!" 

"I lie." Crowley flashes his teeth in a truly serpentine grin. 

"Not to me." Aziraphale knows he's pouting. He doesn't care. It's fun. 

"Not about the important things, and it isn’t like you’ve never lied to me."

"Only to protect you." A few months ago Aziraphale would have denied lying at all. Angels don't lie, and all that rot. Honesty is a dangerous kind of good though. Like flying without wings. 

"I know." Crowley rolls on to his back, a long arm thrown over his face. 

"Does it still hurt? That I lied to you, even for the most noble of reasons?"

"Well, now you mention it, it does twinge a bit. Oh, ouch yes there we go. The agonies..." Crowley grips his side and goes into convulsions. 

Aziraphale smacks him again. "Oh stop. Dramatic old serpent. You've tangled up all the sheets."

Crowley desists. He flops on to his back and hides back under his arm. "What about me then? When did you first realise the depth of your regard for me?"

"I believe I must date it from my first seeing your beautiful grounds at Pemberley," Aziraphale says with pointed primness. 

Crowley lifts his arm and fixes Aziraphale with one yellow eye. "Bastard."

Aziraphale wiggles smugly. This is exactly the response he'd been after. "Honestly, I don't know either. I was so afraid of admitting it to myself for so very long." 

"Until I dropped a bomb on your head, you mean?"

"You never were subtle. That’s why I was so very afraid for you."

"Was afraid for you too."

"Me?" Aziraphale props himself up on an elbow. "Could have handled a few Nazis."

Crowley sighs moving his arm so his fingers can lace over his chest. He keeps his gaze on the ceiling. "Not the point. You were so wound up with the appearance of being a good little angel, even when it was killing you inside." 

"I just didn’t belong."

Crowley is too observant, too fast. He sits up, pulling Aziraphale to him. "You do belong. In this thing that we’ve built together. With me." 

Aziraphale smiles against Crowley's neck, all lip wobbling momentarily vanished. "Someone has to discourage you from gluing valuable coins to pavements." 

'Not done that for a least a decade."

"Still, I must remain ever vigilant."

"Feeling virtuous are you? Fancy your hand at a bit of thwarting?" 

"You forget I know all your weakness, fiend."

"Do your worst holy warrior." Crowley chuckles. 

Tickling ensures. And if Crowley squeals there's only Aziraphale around to hear it. He knows Aziraphale's weaknesses too though. Not just dill sauce and silver snuff boxes, but the place at the back of his neck that's too sensitive for its own good. Aziraphale gasps, bucks. They both topple of the bed. The bed sheets go with them. Hopeless messed up and wrapped around their legs. 

"Look what you did!" Aziraphale can't stop laughing. 

Crowley catches his face between two long hands and kisses his nose. "Consider me thwarted."

Aziraphale heart is too full, but he can’t say it. Won't say it even though it's rolling off him in waves. When Aziraphale looks deep into Crowley’s soul, because he does have a soul huddled in the wreckage of his self-loathing, Aziraphale sees that he is not yet ready to hear it. Crowley's been told once before that he was loved and now believes it to be a lie. The scars are still there. Aziraphale wont add to them. As soon as Aziraphale says the words aloud it will change everything. Crowley will start to question the weight of the them, the meaning. Aziraphale wants there to be no doubts. So he waits and will practices some more in the bathroom mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that's Crowley quoting Mr Darcy.


End file.
